


Rite of Refusal

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [10]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Minor reference to non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man he loves attempted to have him sacrificed, leaving Athelstan bitter, angry, and redevoted to his Christian faith. Thyri tries to get him to see another side of the issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rite of Refusal

**Author's Note:**

> Set in early 1x09, a few days after the family has returned from Uppsala, and Ragnar and co. have gone off to treat with Jarl Borg. 
> 
> Follows [The Short Lives of Birds and Bees](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1671017).

The Passion had always upset Athelstan when he was a young monk. He’d had nightmares about it, even. Knowing how much Jesus had suffered—in gruesome detail—had strengthened his faith over the years, but the thought of it still disturbed him. He wondered how horrible it might be to be beaten so harshly, to have nails pounded through one’s hands and feet, to hang there, slowly bleeding to death while the agony of it all continued.

Yet now that event seemed abstract and detached, when compared to the sacrifices he had witnessed in person at Uppsala—sacrifices of which he should have been part. No, the men who died were not beaten or tortured, and they had welcomed their deaths in service of their gods, but being only a few steps away as Leif’s throat was opened was far more real and frightening than his mere imaginings of Jesus’ more-brutal death.

What wounded him even more deeply, however, was knowing that people he thought loved him—people he considered family—had wished him to die this way. For Lagertha’s part, he understood: she had not been the same since losing her baby. She was still a strong, stoic woman in many ways, but emotionally she seemed frozen. She had withdrawn from both him and Ragnar—indeed from all but her children—and her expressions always seemed awash in desperation. That she would consider sacrificing a slave, friend though he may be, made sense. Ragnar’s motivations, however, he understood far less. He was just as devastated by the loss of his son as Lagertha had been, but his love for Athelstan, at least, had never faded; if anything, it had grown stronger. He had welcomed and encouraged Athelstan’s increasing interest in assimilating to their culture and beliefs. Ragnar had given him higher status, greater responsibility, and finer clothes and other adornments to signal to all that he was no longer the common slave most had thought him to be. Too, their lovemaking continued apace, and Ragnar had even been emboldened enough to spend the occasional night in Athelstan’s bed, his concern about their being discovered disregarded in favor of the joy and comfort of waking up in each other’s arms. That this man who had so demonstrated his love all this time had also plotted to have him killed made Athelstan’s head and stomach spin.

And so, once again he found himself thinking about Jesus’ last days, and wondering if the Savior had loved Judas as much as he had loved Ragnar. Being a Christian had saved his life, and perhaps now it was Jesus’ sacrifice which should be foremost in his mind. The gods of the Northmen wanted his death. The sacrifice his God wanted had already been made by another. The least he could do was honor that sacrifice with his own renewed devotion, however surrounded he might still be by these heathens.

He knelt at his bed to pray.

“Athelstan?” Thyri’s soft voice interrupted his fervent murmurings.

He turned, his cheeks hot. “What is it?” He tried not to sound as angry as he felt.

“I just . . . wanted to know if you needed anything; if there was anything I could, well, _do_ for you before I go back home for the night.”

He scanned her face. Her meaning was clear: she wanted a repeat of their night together—the night before he was to be sacrificed. Looking at her, with her long hair draped over her shoulders and her full mouth open, his libido reacted predictably. His lesser self well remembered the feeling of her buttery soft skin and the heat of her body as he had entered it. His heart, however, was sickened by the very idea of sex—with her or anyone else. “I have returned to the vows of my faith,” he said firmly. “I want nothing from you, Thyri.”

“Oh.” She looked hurt. “Good night, then.” She turned to go.

Much to his annoyance, his tender heart kicked in, and he felt guilty for being so harsh with her. “Wait.” He rose and sat on the bed. “Come back, please.”

Gingerly, she came forward and sat next to him where he patted the bed. “You’re still upset, aren’t you?”

“That’s observant of you.”

“I’m sorry.” She stared at the floor. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You knew about it, didn’t you? The sacrifice, I mean. That’s why you—why we—why that happened.”

She nodded. “I did know, and I was asked—Ragnar asked me—to prepare you, and to give you a nice memory to carry with you to the altar. But I also did it because I wanted to. I’ve been attracted to you for some time, and I was glad to be able to be with you, even if it was just the once. I did not lead you on falsely, in other words. My intents were genuine.”

“Well, thank you for that, I suppose.”

She caught his eye. “One thing I did not know, however, was that he had not told you—that he didn’t even ask to be sure you were offering yourself willingly. And in that, I’m sure I am at least as angry as you are.”

“Why should you be angry? It was not you he wanted to kill.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. At least he was getting some sympathy, and not just the avoidance and thin jokes Ragnar had offered in the wake of the event. He hadn’t even stayed back in Kattegat long enough for them to talk about it before he was off again, running an errand of diplomacy for the king.

“I’m sure you feel betrayed, and you have cause to feel that way.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. “My anger is more than that, though. By not making sure that you wanted this, Ragnar put us all at risk. Leif’s sacrifice was generous of him, but it was not as things were planned. The gods may yet be angry with our house.”  

“And if they are, what am I to do about it?” He raised an eyebrow. “Shall I renounce my faith and offer my sacrifice again? I cannot force myself to believe something I do not. Surely an unwilling sacrifice wouldn’t be enough to appease them.”

“No. That’s unlikely. I do not think you need to worry any longer that your life will be demanded in service to the gods.”

“Well, that is some comfort. Not that it matters much, I suppose.” He shrugged. “My life already has been claimed in their names anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“I have no life that is my own any longer,” he said. “Ragnar stole me from my home. He killed men I loved—men I knew as brothers. He forced my faith out of me and forced me into his service. My life has always been devoted to others, but at least when I was monk, it was my choice to serve. I could not have left my faith without consequence—I could not be an apostate—but I could have left the priesthood if I wanted to. Being raised in the monastery was not my choice as a child, but as a grown man, I chose to serve God. Ragnar, though, made certain I had no choice to make. I could serve him, or I could die, either by his hand or by being unable to survive in this land on my own. A false choice if ever there was one.”

“I see. And was it Ragnar’s will that you now dress this way?” She nodded to his embroidered tunic and the metal ornament in his beard. “Did he force that upon you, too?”

“I—“ He fumbled with the edge of the garment, confusion filtering into his mind again.

“Did he say you could not eventually buy your freedom as other thralls often do? Did he force you to advise him on political matters? Did he force you to love his children, to love Lagertha and care for her after she lost her baby? Did he force you to love _him_?”

He blanched. The look on her face made it clear that she knew that he and Ragnar had been intimate. How long she had been aware, he didn’t know. Still, her knowledge made him turn away in shame.

“Athelstan, I know very well what it feels like to be forced to marry someone—to have sex with someone—entirely against your will. I cannot tell you the joy and delight I felt when my mother plunged that dagger into my husband’s vile heart. And while I recognize that you are technically Ragnar’s slave, he has not regarded you as such in all the time I have known you. I know how slaves are usually treated by their masters here, and I know you aren’t treated that way at all. Yes, you were taken captive and brought here as Ragnar’s property, but I very much doubt that’s what you are in anything more than name alone. I was more a slave to my father than you have ever been to Ragnar.”

He set his jaw, unable to counter anything she was saying, and tried to blink back the angry tears welling up in his eyes.

“You say that you freely chose to serve your god, yes?” she continued. “You chose a life devoted to another. It is undoubtedly in your nature to do so. Don’t confuse your own need to serve with another’s desire to make you do so against your will. You are not a child. You are not a man of simple mind, easily led to act against your interests. You are not a foe who has been conquered on the battlefield and must submit to the victor’s whims. What you do for your god, you do out of love, not obligation. Why can it not be the same for Ragnar?”

He huffed in frustration. “My god did not demand that I die for him. He welcomes willing martyrs—those who choose to die in service of their faith—but he does not force people to die against their choice. We were all saved by one sacrifice; he has no need to force others.”

“Ragnar didn’t force your death, either, if you remember. He could have killed you when they raided your temple, but he spared your life—yours, specifically.”

“Apparently only so he could spend years stealing my friendship and service and then kill me later.”  

She sighed heavily. “I understand that you’re upset. I do. You were deceived by people you love. That hurts no matter how big or small the betrayal. I understand that you are shocked and fearful because you narrowly escaped death. But do not let that color the entirety of your experiences here, and lead you to think things about us that are not true. Just as my actions toward you were not borne out of malice or dishonesty, it’s likely that neither were Ragnar’s. The man killed my father and yet I’ve come to admire him anyway. Are you more unwilling than I to be of an open mind?” Her voice softened, and she lay a hand on his arm. This time, he let it stay. “He loves you. Anyone who has spent more than a day observing your interactions could tell that. Don’t be so quick to throw that away before you at least try to understand why he did what he did.”

He brushed away a few hot tears that had spilled down his cheeks. “And why do you think he did it? If he loved me so much, why did he want to kill me? If I mattered so much more to him than a common slave, why would he be so quick to lose me?”

“That, Athelstan, is a question for him when he returns.” She stood, aiming for the doorway. “I understand that you have again devoted yourself to your faith, and I won’t ask anything else of you, but for one thing: that you give him—give all of us here—the benefit of the doubt. You once told me that Christians place much importance on forgiveness. Perhaps that’s the part of your faith in which you should now invest.” 


End file.
